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There was indeed a to-do list when Higuruma intended to commit when he decided to “try new things he believed were wrongs,” but none of the check-boxes had to do with the things he had imbrued his hands now.
Sure, he was dissatisfied with the system, but it doesn’t and will never justify his course of action. He had mulled over, blindness may be wasn’t the solution to his utopia, but it was for the sake of his conscience. Oblivion to the risible price of his so-called flawless justice. And now, he still has flashes of the afterimage of that day's massacre from time to time, blood invisible to the black of his suit but warm on his skin, cold on their immobile figures.
His dreams haunted, his mind septic, but better than to be numb, to be foreign to the guilt of his sins.
But oh, if only he would stop at murder.
He thought he would redeem by running away; he doesn’t deserve leniency that comes from a certain pink-haired boy. But all his determination somehow always proves of little avail when he’s at the boy’s mercy.
Higuruma was shocked to find in this rotten world, how honored he could possibly be to find such a precious gem. It’s like being a child finding the purest, shiniest, most unadulterated treasure. Or, like a sun, he shines so bright that he rules the sky, the cycle of life, day and night, a true saint.
It would be easy to just give up the scorching burden. It would be easy to embrace that unfettered benevolence. It would be easy to just bathe in the vitality of daylight. And it would be so easy to just play that son of a bitch of an uncivilized tourist tarnishing the heavens’ holy sculpture with his bloody, muddy hands.
He knew it would only take one look to be burnt under that aureate solar glare, and it would take two to see his what-if death to be caused not by the brilliance of said light, but the despair in absolute illumination.
He needs to see it; the need to testify how far his saint's clemency would go for a mere far-away bloom.
So he does. The sunflower finally faces the sun after denying light for a lifetime, making the burning star witness it wither to its own solitary quietus. The saint will die and be crucified for his sins, he will fester from remembering his powerlessness watching this misery of a man down below on his omnipotent throne high above.
The saint will have to take it from here.